LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


OLD  VOICES 


OTHER    BOOKS    BY 
HOWARD  WEEDEN 

BANDANNA    BALLADS 
SONGS  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH 


A   BOHEMIAN 


OLD    VOICES 

"For  love  of  unforgotten  times" 


By 

Howard  Weeden 


New  York 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 
1904 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Copyright,  1904,  by 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

Published,  September,  1904 


AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 

To 
JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

BY 

HIS  GRATEFUL  FRIEND 
THE  AUTHOR 


ERE  is  hope  for  nobler  things 

If  such  the  future  brings : 
But  O,  here 's  love  for  everything 
That  long  ago  took  wing ! 


CONTENTS 


A  Bohemian 

Memory's  Feast 

Important  News 

A  Toilet 

Pantry  and  Pulpit 

Ole  Mistis'  Way 

The  Old  Biscuit  Block 

The  Palate  Wrop 

Me  and  Mammy 

Mimosa  Blooms 

An  Old  Garden 

A  Rose  Song 

Time 

Christmas  Etchings 

The  Rout 

A  Voice  of  the  Night 


CONTENTS— Continued 

The  Angel  of  the  Dark 

A  Study 

A  Mystic 

A  Waif 

Acer  Spades 

The  Problem 

A  Veteran 

Vanity  Fair 


xii 


A  BOHEMIAN 

0  yes  !  I  always  had  a  taste 
Per  takin'  troubles  light 

An'  leavin'  'sponsibilities 
To  shoulders  dat  is  white. 

All  summer  long,  things  grows  so  free, 
What  need  to  work  or  buy  ? 

Dere's  plenty  lyin'  loose  aroun' 
Per  sech  a  worm  as  I. 

An'  when  de  winter  comes  along 
Why  Christmas  'vides  fer  dat; 

1  jes'  looks  up  my  ole  white  folks, 
An'  passes  'round  de  hat ! 

In  dis  way  I  divides  de  year 

You  understan'  in  two — 
An'  trusts  de  summer-time  to  God, 

De  winter-time  to — you ! 


MEMORY'S  FEAST 

I'm  sit  tin'  here  in  Northern  ease 

A  eatin'  baker's  bread, 
An'  sayin'  grace  on  by-gone  meals 

I  ate  when  Southern  fed — 
Dear  gumbo,  wid  red  pepper  hot, 

Dear  rice  an'  'possum  meat, 
Dear  smokin'  hominy,  rich  corn-bread, 

An'  beaten  biscuit  sweet ! 

Why,  Lord !  it's  fillin'  jes'  to  think 

'Bout  nourishment  like  dat, 
An'  I  can  eat  in  dreams  until 

I  feels  well-fed  an'  fat: 
An'  all  de  thanks  I  tries  to  give 

For  dis  here  saw-dust  bread, 
Is  jes'  a  grace  to  Memory— 

When  I  was  Southern  fed ! 


•jsp^Kagsssww"^  •'.,•:.' 


IMPORTANT   NEWS 


I  heerd  dat  you  was  goin'  back 

To  ole  Virginie  agin, 
An'  I  would  like  to  send  some  news 

To  my  ole  friends  an'  kin: 


Jes'  look  up  my  ole  Daddy  please, 
An'  my  ole  Mammy  too; 

An'  say  to  dem  I  said  to  you 
I  sont  my  Howdy-do  ! 


An'  if  you  sees  some  fine  white  folks 

Wid  blood  dats  navy-blue, 
Jes'  say  to  dem  I  said  to  you, 

I  sont  my  Howdy-do  ! 

An'   please  find  Brother  Washington- 
He  married  me  an'  Lou— 

An'  say  to  him  I  said  to  you 
I  sont  my  Howdy-do ! 

An'  if  dat  Lou  herself  should  still 
Be  knockin'  round  dere  too, 

Why  you  can  'low  I  said  to  you 
I  sont  my  Howdy-do  ! 


•;a 

vjj 

'?. 

? 


A    TOILET 


Sometimes  you'd  think  dat  Mammy 

was 

De  most  tremendous  mad, 
De  way  she  knocks  an'  cuffs  me 

round 
An'  calls  me  Satan-bad; 


An'  all  de  time,  betwixt  de  cuffs, 
She's  wroppin'  of  my  hair, 

An'  greasin'  of  my  ashy  face 
An'  study  in'  what  I'll  wear; 

An'  den  she  puts  on  my  red  dress- 
De  one  she  lately  make, — 

An'  bof  of  us  jes'  switches  off 
Together  to  a  wake ! 


1 


lS^.^S>^V»^^^^^V^•A^^^>:^X*iM^i.-A•^ti-,-^•»^•'l 


TV 
V  M. 


i:       3 


PANTRY  AND   PULPIT 

How  did  I  come  to  preach,  you  ask? 

Well,  dis  here  way  in  part  : 
'Twas  bein'   Master's  butler,   Sir, 

Dat  gave  me  my  first  start. 

For  after  Freedom,  when  I  turned 
For  better  jobs  to  search, 

My  table-manners  was  so  good, 
I  settled  on  de  Church. 

An'  so  I  took  to  preachin',  an' 

It's  jes'  about  dis  size  : 
It's  been  my  good  ole  butler-wits 

Dat's  made  me  pulpit-wise  ! 


-,'-,**«•'?>'  v-i"  *jt""av'  -  i:--j^"-^-'-7r*  ."**",'     ".-.      *- 


*£^ 


\ 


OLE    MISTIS'   WAY 

You  flighty  young  folks  needn't  come 

A-orderin'  me  no  mo' ; 
I'm  sot  in  ways  my  ole  Mis'  taught 

An'  'spects  to  stay  jes'  so. 
It's  hurry  wid  you  all  de  time 

As  if  'twas  jedgment  day, 
An'  I  am  called  of  no  account 

'Case  I  ain't  made  dat  way. 

But  age  an'  slowness  used  to  be 

Respected  in  de  race, 
An'  I  wa'n't  asked  to  be  so  swif 

When  ole  Mis'  set  de  pace. 
An'  dere  wa'n't  nothin'  in  dem  days 

Of  all  dis  haste  an'  noise, 
For  't wasn't  manners  to  be  fast 

When  me  an'  Mis'  was  boys  ! 


•xs 


\ 

'< 


FZ&f!l!?St»>S**e&9*1^^  '.U  ••"»»"  V»»w 

\ 


C'-i-''./jw4 


THE  OLD  BISCUIT  BLOCK 

Gone  are  the  splendid  brave  old  days 

When  cooking  was  a  feat, 
When  it  stirred  one's  blood  like  victory 

Just  to  hear  the  biscuit  beat ! 


Now  the  stately  kitchens  stand 

Forsaken  and  forlorn, 
And  now  life's  but  a  cowardly  affair 

Since  all  the  cooks  are  gone ! 


• 


. 


THE   PALATE   WROP 

Lord,  ain't  you  never  heerd  before 
About  a  nigger's  palate-wrop? 

Why,  here  is  one  right  on  my  head, 
Jes'  in  de  middle  of  de  top. 

My  palate  got  down  bad  one  time, 
So  Mammy  said  she'd  put  a  stop 

To  dat,  an'  tuk  my  head  in  han' 
An'  found  de  right  place  for  de 
wrop. 


An'  den  she  twis'  an'  twis'  an'  twis', 
An'  den  she  wrop  an'  wrop  an' 
wrop, 

Till  after  while  de  palate  flew 

Back  to  its  right  place  wid  a  flop  ! 

So,  if  your  palate  should  git  down, 
Do  as  I  tell  you,  and  I  thinks— 

But  what  I  talkin  'bout?  —  You's 

white 
An'  got  no  Mammy,  an'  no  kinks  ! 


v    -r",- 


^l-SP  *•>'  • 


ME   AND    MAMMY 

Me  and  Mammy  know  a  child, 

About  my  age  and  size, 
Who,  Mammy  says,  won't  go  to  Heaven 

'Cause  she's  so  grown  and  wise. 

She  answers  "  Yes  "  and  "  No,"  just  so— 
When  grown  folks  speak  to  her, 

And  laughs  at  Mammy  and  at  me, 
When  I  say  "Ma'am"  and  "Sir." 

And  Mammy  says  the  reason  why 
This  child's  in  such  a  plight, 

Is  'cause  she's  had  no  Mammy  dear, 
To  raise  her  sweet  and  right, 

To  stand  between  her  and  the  world 

With  all  its  old  sad  noise, 
And  give  her  baby-heart  a  chance 

To  keep  its  baby  joys. 

Then  Mammy  draws  me  close  to  her 
And  says,  "the  Lord  be  praised; 

Here's  what  I  calls  a  decent  chile, 
'Case  hit's  been  Mammy-raised  !  " 


•$ 

3 

••$ 


.i 


1 


The  South-winds  shake  the  mimosa  awake 

With  a  shiver  as  soft  as  rain ; 
The  South- wind  dies,  the  mimosa  sighs 

And  sinks  to  silence  again. 

And  oh,  but  the  scent  that  is  faintly  lent, 

By  the  stirred  mimosa  bloom  ! 
One's  heart  nearly  breaks  with  the  thought 
it  awakes, 

Oh  tender,  oh  cruel  perfume: 


**-•!*••.      • 


m 

'V'Vi- 

•*  '..•'*;, 


•••t 
i 


AN    OLD   GARDEN 

I  wonder  if  your  memory  holds 

A  garden  old  like  mine- 
Within  its  midst,  a  summer-house 

As  lovely  as  a  shrine  ? 

Around  mine  bloomed  a  world  of  flowers, 

That  scented  every  breeze; 
And  all  life's  noises  have  not  drowned 

The  murmur  of  its  bees. 

And  where  the  roses  thickest  grew 
And  bloomed  the  deepest  red, 

A  group  of  lonely  head-stones  marked 
Some  long-forgotten  Dead.* 

And  there  we  children  lingered  oft 
And  mused  upon  each  grave, 

With  all  the  passion  for  the  Past 
A  happy  Present  gave. 

And  now  another  Past  has  crept 

About  the  old,  and  spread- 
Till  nothing  but  a  Verse  will  bloom 

In  that  old  garden  dead  ! 


4 


A  ROSE   SONG 

When  Sylvia  wears  a  snowy  rose 

Upon  her  lovely  breast, 
I  marvel  that  the  rose  remains 

So  white  in  such  a  nest : 
I'd  glow  till  every  petal  pale 

Had  flushed  to  warmest  pink 
And  show  her  in  a  splendid  blush 

How  deep  a  rose  could  think ! 

When  Sylvia  wears  a  crimson  rose 

Above  her  dainty  ear, 
I  wonder  how  the  rose  keeps  calm 

With  Sylvia's  smile  so  near: 
I'd  loose  me  from  the  silken  hair 

Where  she  had  bade  me  lie, 
And  fall — all  red  and  passionate — 

At  Sylvia's  feet  to  die ! 


She  brought  away  the  rose  he  gave 

Once  from  a  garden  fair, 
With  eyes  that  saw  but  that  one  rose 

Of  all  the  roses  there. 

Now  when  the  patient  summers  bring 
Their  chastened  roses  red, 

She  sees  and  loves  them  all  because 
Of  one  rose — long  since  dead ! 


/$& 


j.»^w*aj>ft.W^,w)&*:^ 


CHRISTMAS   ETCHINGS 


Christmas  in  the  North;  and  wide 

And  wan  the  world  lies  cold 
In  winter-burial  deep  of  snow 

That  hides  each  field  and  fold; 
And  all  is  still  between  the  vast 

Black  sky  and  vast  white  earth, 
And  life  and  love  have  crept  within— 

To  shelter  at  the  hearth. 

Christmas  in  the  South;  and  warm 
And  brown  the  earth  is  stretched— 
And  where  yon  dark  field  meets  the 
clear 

Soft  rim  of  night,  is  etched 
A  lovely,  luminous  silhouette 

Of  flocks  and  shepherds  calm, 
And  one  large,  melting  Star  that 
hangs 

Low  in  a  sky  of  balm ! 


*" 


£?T?r.:- 


r.'V.:--^-'-- -'**•  * 


THE    ROUT 

What  shall  we  do,  my  heart  and  I, 
Guests  here  at  Life's  gay  rout, 

If  e're  the  long,  long  night  has  waned 
The  dreams  should  all  go  out  ? 

The  dreams  that  lit  the  tinsel  place 
With  radiance  strangely  fair, 

And  made  its  crowded  loneliness 
A  borrowed  joyance  wear ! 

The  dreams  that  touched  our  pulses  till 
The  throbbing  veins  ran  wine, 

And  kept  us  glad  and  unafraid 
And  young  and  half  divine  ! 

The  dreams  that  helped  us  to  forget 
How  dull  the  hours  had  grown ; 

How  many  revellers  we  loved 

Had  said  "  Good  night  "-—and  flown. 

What  shall  we  do,  my  heart  and  I, 
Late  guests  at  Life's  poor  rout  ? 

We  are  so  far  from  home,  and  see ! 
The  dreams  are  going  out ! 


*E 


A  VOICE  OF  THE  NIGHT 

Wide  and  warm  lies  the  Southern  night, 

Steeped  in  purple  dusk; 
Calm  except  for  the  scented  winds 

That  stir  the  jessamine's  musk, 
And  silent — until  a  sudden  Voice 

Piercing  the  night  is  heard, 
And  the  quiet,  fragrant  world  awakes 

To  the  song  of  a  Mocking-bird. 

Was  it  a  dream  that  suddenly  stirred 

The  sleeping  bird  to  bliss 
And  woke  his  passionate  eager  heart 

To  rapture  such  as  this  ? 
Or  was  it  that,  from  his  lofty  nest, 

He  saw  in  the  East  a  ray 
Of  faint  but  certain  dawn — and  laughed 

Because  of  Hope  and  Day ! 


a 

•a 


THE   ANGEL  OF  THE 
DARK 

The  quiet  night  comes  softly  down, 
Good-bye,  dear  day,  good-bye ! 

The  Angel  of  the  Dark  is  here, 
And  in  her  arms  I  lie ! 

Good-bye,  dear  day,  the  long,  long 
night 

Holds  not  a  single  fear, 
Because  this  Angel  of  the  Dark 

Is  just  my  Mammy  dear  ! 


m 


There  on  the  wall  hangs  the  sketch 

of  a  Head, 

Unfinished  and  dim  and  crude; 
Its  weak  lines  drowned  in  a  splendid 

blur 
Of  shadows  rich  and  rude. 

Black  and  calm  as  an  alien  face 

Blown  from  tropic  seas ; 
Caught  in  a  pose  of  bland  content 

And  the  rapture  of  taking  its  ease. 

Large  and  massive  and  richly  dark 
With  shadows  that  smoulder  and 

burn; 
Blank  as  a  sphinx  with  its  brooding 

look 
Of  placid  unconcern. 

And  whether  the  Artist  will  finish  the 

sketch 

No  man,  it  seems,  can  know: 
He  may  give  it  a  touch  like  dawn 

some  day, 
Or  leave  it  forever — so  ! 


- 


A   MYSTIC 

I  got  religion  through  a  heap 
Of  fights  wid  doubt  an'  sin, 

An'  many  a  time  'twas  hard  to  tell 
If  Heaben  or  Hell  would  win. 

But  one  day  as  I  walked  to'a'ds  home 
Still  seekin'  peace  of  min' 

I  asked  de  Lord  to  end  my  doubts 
By  givin'  me  a  Sign. 

An'  suddenly  I  heerd  His  voice 
Say   softly,    "  Gabe,   look  back;" 

An',  lo,  de  road  was  smoove-as 

glass— 
I  hadn't  left  a  track ! 

So  den  I  knowed  dat  I  was  in 

De  spirit  for  a  fac' ; 
'Cause  in  de  flesh  a  nigger's  foot 

Is  'casion  for  a  track  ! 


— 


^^ 


,  .fWfTj*?  i-kjiT*     t  *  ! '  r  " 

'      --.,>.  A    *i'*.     ' 


,:.**-'' 


A  WAIF 


•j.  .  » • 


Who  made  me  ?    Well,  'twas  God  I 
'spec', 

At  least,  dat's  what  is  said: 
But  how  is  I  to  know  fer  sure, 

Now  dat  my  Mammy's  dead ! 


De  ether  chillun  learns  de  news 
Right  at  dere  Mammies'  side 

An'  laughs  becase  dere's  no  sich  place 
For  me,  since  Mammy  died  ! 

But  one  thing  I  do  know,  becase 
Hits  somethin'  Mammy  said: 

"  Dat  Heaben  was  where  a  chile  would 

find 
Its  Mammy  was  not  dead  !  " 


ACER   SPADES 

De  chillun  all  tuk  after  Her, 
A  warm,  bright  ginger-bread, 

Exceptin'  little  Acer  Spades, 
An'  he  was  black  instead. 

So,  bein'  he  tuk  after  me, 

Why,  I  tuk  after  him, 
An'  dat  small  little  boy  he  filled 

My  heart  right  to  de  brim. 

Well — all  de  ethers  dey  growed  up 
An'  scattered  far  an'  wide; 

An'  only  one  has  stayed  wid  me— 
Dat  Acer  Spades  who  died ! 


THE   PROBLEM 

You've  made  me  the  Problem  of  the 

age- 

The  Riddle— the  Puzzle— the  Knot: 
And   the   nations    stand   frowning   and 

gaping  around, 
Trying  to  unravel  the  plot. 

And  all  the  while  I'm  the  simplest  thing 
Ever  made  in  the  image  of  fun, 

If  you  leave  me  alone  with  a  cotton-field 
And  a  hoe,  and  plenty  of  sun  ! 


A  VETERAN 

It's  curious,  when  dere's  sich  a  lot 
Of  nigger-pensions  'round, 

Dat  mine  in  some  strange  sort  of  way 
Aint  never  yit  been  found ! 

Of  course,  sir,  I  was  in  de  war, 

Me  an'  my  Master  too ! 
We  lit  in  at  de  fus'  drum- tap 

An'  stayed  till  hit  was  through. 

An'  I  kept  always  clost  to  him 
In  camp — as  clost  could  be, 

An'  in  de  field  as  clost,  of  course, 
As  hit  was  safe  for  me. 

An',  bet  your  life,  we  made  things 
warm 

All  up  an'  down  de  line ; 
For  "  General "  was  my  Master's  rank, 

An'  body-sergeant  mine ! 

But  now,  when  I  says  "  pension,"  why, 
Dey  laughs  an'  says  to  me: 

You  better  go  an'  die,  an'  git 
Your  pension  fum  ole  Lee ! 


[)>»*JT>- 


•••• 


SoJedk* 


VANITY   FAIR 


De  Cake-walk  hit  comes  off  to-night 
Down  yander  at  Sis  Lou's; 

An'  I've  been  sont  to  git  a  patch 
Put  on  her  Sonday  shoes. 

Oh,  won't  dem  dancers  switch  around 

All  up  an'  down  in  twos, 
An'  won't  dey  scrape  an'  stomp  dere 
feet 

All  in  dere  Sonday  shoes  ! 

I  seem  to  hear  de  banjos  play, 

I  feel  de  floors  shake, 
I  hear  de  tromp  of  Sonday  shoes, 

An'  smell  the  smell  of  cake ! 

De  Lord  knows  if  I  had  my  way, 
Of  all  things,  I  would  choose 

To  go  to  dat  Cake-walk  to-night 
An'  stan'  in  Sis  Lou's  shoes ! 


r 


»•*. 
' 


*#^      m 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON   THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


UCU  LIBKAKY 
DUE  jui  1  5  1969 

1  5 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50?n-8,'66(G5530s4)458 


N9  535319 


PS3545 

Weeden,  H.  E44 

Old  voices,  05 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


